The Burnt Child
by plumbloom
Summary: Azulon was not present at the birth of Ozai's firstborn. oneshot, from Zuko's birth into early teens. prequel to "The Day He Himself Shall Wipe My Tears Away".


**The Burnt Child**

_The fire that will never be cured of us.  
The fire that speaks our language._ – W.S. Merwin

Azulon was not present at the birth of Ozai's firstborn. He had not necessarily disagreed with his son's decision to marry Ursa, who was of noble birth but not a firebender, but he had not given his second son a blessing, either. When Ozai came to him to ask permission, he merely set his mouth and replied,

"It is not any concern of mine whom you marry. My firstborn, and his firstborn, are more than adequate to my throne. You are fortunate to be granted this freedom, Ozai. That is all I will say."

Ozai had bristled at his father's reminder. It was true that Iroh was a gifted bender and brilliant general. Yet he also was uncouth and given to pleasures of the flesh – drink, meat, and women. The last had granted him a son of exceptional ability and promise, born out of wedlock to a firebending master who agreed to conceive the child if Iroh would agree to instruct her for a year. Though this practice was common among Fire Nation nobles who did not care to marry, male and female alike, something about it made Ozai's stomach sour. He suspected it had something to do with Azulon's total disregard of his own eagerness to please. Ursa was not a firebender, but she had come from a long line of great firebenders in service of the Fire Lord, and the marriage was a convenient one. Ozai had hoped to at least gain some approval from his father by the match, but Azulon seemed totally disinterested. It was true that Ozai had the freedom to marry whomever he chose as the secondborn son – as opposed to Iroh, who was obligated to produce an exceptional offspring – but he was not glad of it, or attempting to utilise it. He was trying to gain his father's favour. It continued to elude him, as it always had.

Fire Lady Illah, on the other hand, came to the birth ceremony. She joined her son in the anteroom, where he was looking out on the lights of the capital, and put a hand on his wrist. He tensed and she withdrew, looking at him knowingly.

"Mother." He bowed. "Thank you for coming."

"You're welcome," she replied, glancing around. "Where is your brother?"

"Preparing for his departure, I think," Ozai replied, though inwardly he thought, getting extremely drunk. "Where is the Fire Lord?"

"Your father isn't feeling well tonight." Illah lied with ease. She knew that Ozai knew it was a lie, and yet it was necessary for the sake of anyone who might overhear – or so she told herself. "How is your wife coming along?"

"I don't know. The midwives haven't come out in a few hours."

Silence. Illah glanced around the anteroom and noted that most of the servants had gone, save for a manservant and a maid, who was cleaning out the fireplace. "You two," she addressed them. "Please leave us."

They bowed and took their leave, shutting the ornate double doors behind them. Illah took a seat near the fireplace and motioned for her son to do the same.

"Let me pose a rather rude question to you, Prince Ozai."

"Yes?"

"Why did you marry this woman? You do not love her."

Ozai laughed bitterly. "That may have been a more prudent question to ask _before_ I married her, Mother."

"You were not going to be swayed from your course of action, my son. I know you. You have been stubborn since your birth, when you could barely make the palms of your hands glow." Ozai's jaw clenched at her mention of his originally weak ability. "You have worked very hard to become a good firebender and a good prince. Your brother, who has always been talented, has often neglected his studies and has indulged in immature pleasures. For a time, you were certainly the better choice to succeed the throne. Yet Iroh has matured. With the birth of his son, he is not the man he used to be. He is an excellent father and an excellent general, and he is raising a talented boy to succeed him. Outwardly, you seem to have accepted this. You have not attempted to marry with hopes of producing an offspring that would be able to inherit the throne one day. You are polite to Iroh, and you have never quarreled with your father about your birthright or strove to take one inch of that which is not yours. You have never sought to use my favour toward you as influence on your own behalf. Yet I know you, my son. I know that your marriage to this woman is not purposeless. I know you crave your father's acceptance. What can it be? Do you seriously hope that this woman will bear you a brilliant child because of her honoured family line? I know, Ozai, that you have not given up. Perhaps you do not crave the throne, but you certainly crave your father's love."

Ozai was silent – mute, perhaps. Illah regarded him intently, and then rose. "I do not expect an answer, my son. I have always favoured you, and perhaps it is without cause, for you have never given a thought to my existence; just as your brother does not care a whit for the acceptance of your father. If there is a strong difference between you and your brother, I think it is that Iroh has never looked for anyone's acceptance – much like your father. Perhaps that is what Azulon so treasures."

Before Ozai could reply, the double doors shuddered open. Ozai snapped to his feet, but it was only Iroh, who strode in grinning widely.

"Brother! Congratulations!" He made to engulf Ozai in an embrace, but Ozai put his hands up gently and said,

"You're too early. It hasn't happened yet."

"Oh." Iroh quieted down, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry for my abrupt entrance. I was so busy with the preparations, I lost track of time. Has it been long?"

"No longer than is normal," Illah said, moving forward to kiss her son's cheek. "Hello, Iroh. It seems you were followed."

The small face at the door disappeared, only to re-appear a moment later. "Sorry, Dad."

Iroh laughed quietly. "Ozai, may he stay?"

Controlling his temper was something that had come to him slowly but surely over the years. Ozai gestured diffidently and Liu Ten nearly squeaked for joy, racing over to Iroh's side. When he saw his grandmother, he greeted her respectfully, then listened with a look of serious concentration as Iroh instructed him on the proper behaviour for such a ceremony. Ozai resumed his place at the window, trying not to brood. Illah joined him and again rested her hand on his arm.

"I'll say no more. I must take my leave, now, for I'm not feeling well either. But think of what I have said, Prince Ozai."

He remained at the window in a fog until the first piercing cries of the newborn drew him away. Moments later, the door to the inner room opened and a midwife exited, carrying the screaming baby wrapped in soft blankets. She bowed to Ozai and Iroh, and gently handed the baby to the former. "A prince, your Highness."

"A son," Iroh said jubilantly. "You have indeed been blessed."

"Thank you," Ozai replied tersely. Liu Ten was standing on his tip-toes in an effort to see the baby. Ozai glanced down at his nephew, and after a moment's consideration resumed his seat near the fireplace so that Liu Ten could watch.

Ozai brought a small flame to bear in his hand, yellow and innocent. At the heat of the fire, the baby stopped crying. His face was still wet, and he breathed in great gasps. Ozai brought the flame closer and closer, until it nearly touched one of the baby's clenched fists. The baby lie absolutely still, but nothing happened.

"Ozai, I think that is close enough…" said Iroh nervously.

"What's he doing, Dad?"

Ozai edged the flame even nearer, willing his son to take control of the flame. But there was nothing, not even a faint glow in the palms. Frustrated, Ozai rocked the baby back and forth quickly, and brought his hand yet closer. Suddenly the baby jerked his hand back and screamed. Liu Ten, too, cried out.

His rage, his grief, he felt them too intensely to bear. He shoved the baby into Iroh's arms and allowed the flame in his hand to burn blue, so hot that he thought it would burn him. Iroh rocked the child and sang to him softly, examining his tiny hand. There was a mild burn, but it would heal in time.

"I'm leaving," Ozai said in a clipped tone. "May the fire of your ships burn brightly tomorrow."

Iroh nodded his thanks. "But what will you name your son?"

Ozai paused at the doors. Malevolently, he whispered, "I don't care."

For a few moments, there was silence. The baby had quieted, and now he only snuffled, rubbing his mouth against the blankets in search of something to comfort him. Liu Ten reached up and rubbed a finger against one of the baby's small cheeks. "Papa?"

Iroh tactfully ignored his son's unspoken question and instead said with cheer, "What do you think we should name the little prince?"

Liu Ten thought hard, wrinkling his brow. "I like Zukai, like in old tale."

"That's good, but it sounds too much like your uncle's name." Iroh looked again at the face of the infant. "Zuko," he said thoughtfully. "I had always thought that if I had another son I would name him Zuko."

He felt Liu Ten tug at his sleeve. "But you won't have any other sons," said the boy imperiously. "Because you have me."

Iroh threw his head back and laughed as the baby snuggled deeper into his chest.

Prince Zuko was three years old when his mother took sick and he was sent to stay in his uncle's quarters on the other side of the palace. He was not particularly upset about this development, although he did miss Ursa – but his older cousin Liu Ten was his favourite person in the palace next to his mother. He stayed there for two days, playing with his cousin and uncle during the day, and sleeping in his cousin's bed at night. Though it was a pleasant change of pace, he was glad when his mother's personal servant came to fetch him and bring him to her quarters, where she was resting in her bed. He clambered awkwardly onto the bed. His mother was pale and quiet, but she smiled broadly at him.

"Hello, my little prince."

He clambered into her lap and lay contentedly as she played with his hair and told him a story, then made a tent out of the bedsheets. They giggled under the sheets, she pretending to be a mama bear and he the cub, until Zuko heard his father's voice:

"Ursa!"

His mother threw back the covers. Ozai was standing at the foot of the bed, holding something wrapped in blankets in his arms. He frowned at his wife. "Are you sure you've recovered enough to be playing?"

"I'm fine." Ursa's expression was tenser now, and Zuko looked at her quizzically. "Ozai…do you think we should…"

"Zuko," Ozai interrupted her, "have you met your baby sister?"

Nervously, Zuko retreated behind his mother. His interaction with his father was limited to stern silence, at best. To see him grinning with malicious joy was, to put it simply, frightening.

Ozai came around to the side of the bed and sat down, his movements strangely careful and almost tender. "See? This is your sister, Azula."

Zuko looked to his mother, and she sighed and gently pulled him out from behind her pillows. "That's your baby sister."

He came forward, encouraged by Ozai's rare smile, and peered inside the blankets. The baby was not crying, but it was not sleeping either. Zuko stretched out a hand and Ozai tensed, but allowed him to touch his sister on the forehead.

"Now watch, Zuko." Ozai lifted one hand from underneath the baby and brought forth an orange flame. He held it near the baby, and she immediately thrust her tiny fists up into the air. They glowed orange and then burst into flame. Zuko jumped back, startled, and Ozai laughed as he extinguished his flame and his daughter's. Ursa's mouth tightened as she held her frightened son.

"Was that necessary?"

Ozai's grin was gone; he seemed to have retreated within himself again. "Perhaps it will motivate him," he said curtly, then rose to his feet and exited.

Zuko watched his father go and struggled not to cry. For perhaps the first time in his young life, he knew the bitter fire of hatred. Unnoticed by he or his mother, his palms underneath the covers were glowing with blue heat.

When Zuko was thirteen and Azula ten, their father the Fire Lord sent word to the former that he was to accompany his uncle on a journey. In the years since his mother's disappearance, Zuko had applied himself to his studies with rigor. Since Azula, though three years his junior, was obviously his superior when it came to firebending, she received daily lessons from the best tutors and one weekly lesson from their father. Zuko, on the other hand, was mostly confined to study swordfighting, history, politics and other 'dull' subjects. He had timidly approached Iroh once and asked if he might be willing to demonstrate some moves for his nephew, but the look of sorrow in Iroh's eyes was more than enough to subdue his request. Thus, Zuko was overjoyed when he received word that this very week he would go on a journey with his uncle to the heart of the Huozhan jungle and retrieve a piece of the old oracle there to bring back to the palace, where the seers would examine it for spiritual guidance in the recent war maneuvers. Zuko didn't think much of appealing to spirits, but he was excited at the prospect of being taught firebending to ward off the creatures of the jungle. A manservant was helping him pack his things when the door to his quarters banged open rudely.

"Zuzu," his sister greeted him coldly. "What's all the fuss about?"

"None of your business, Azula," Zuko answered without emotion. His sister had a knack for frustrating and shocking him to the point where he could be angry and childish, and therefore weak – which was exactly, Zuko had learned, what she wanted. Instead, he struggled to keep his temper and remain composed, knowing that if he succeeded, she would be the one to become frustrated.

Azula leaned against the door frame and shrugged. "Fine, don't tell me. It's not as if I don't know already. And _I_ was done packing yesterday."

Zuko froze and threw her a threatening glance. "What?"

"Oh, didn't Father tell you? I'm coming. You don't really think he'd send you two fools out there alone, did you? I mean, you're a failure when it comes to bending, and Iroh is a weak-hearted coward, but you're still family. It would look bad if you two just disappeared, especially after what happened to Mother and Grandfather. So I'm going along to protect you."

To Azula's surprise, Zuko laughed. "_You_, protect Uncle?" He made a show of dismissing her as he knelt to inspect a pair of boots.

The young girl's eyebrows knit briefly, and then smoothed. She re-set the smug grin on her face and lowered her voice considerably as she continued with a topic that she knew was sure to make Zuko crazy. "After all, Father has no reason to eliminate either of you. You're barely even threats. He's already gotten rid of the major player, Grandfather. It was done justly; if that old fool couldn't realise that allowing Iroh to take the throne was idiocy, he deserved his death. And Mother…well…"

Silence. Zuko's hands were clenched into fists as he looked up at his sister. "Don't you dare."

"Did you know, Zuzu, that Mother wasn't even a firebender? Father won't tell me why he even married her in the first place, but in any case, she was a nuisance. And you're definitely her son. Useless and weak, just like her. Father was totally justified in getting rid of – " Azula broke off as she sidestepped Zuko's lunge, then knocked him to the floor and kicked him hard between his legs. " – her. And if you're not careful, he'll get rid of you too." Grinning, she strode off.

The manservant had rushed to Zuko's side, but the prince waved him off, brushing the tears from his eyes and getting to his feet with difficulty. The physical pain was bad, but his heart ached worse. Still he refused to believe that his mother's disappearance or grandfather's death had anything to do with his father. Ozai was stern and demanding (in fact, Zuko could never think of a time his father had praised him) and aloof. But he was not a murderer. His mother had loved his father, Zuko recalled, thinking of the way she had quietly and proudly regarded him whenever the family was together. And he, Zuko, loved and trusted his mother. She could not have possibly desired the love and acceptance of one who was evil.

It was Azula's fault, Zuko thought grimly. She fed him lies about his father and she probably fed his father lies about him as well. _I'll prove myself to him beyond the shadow of her lies,_ he resolved as he moved gingerly to sit on the end of the bed and continue his inspection of his boots. _Then we'll truly be bonded as only a Fire Lord and his son can bond._

"How much longer are we going to stomping through his muck?" Azula snarled. She shoved a hanging creeper out of her way with an expression of annoyance. "I thought we came here to fight jungle beasts."

"Only for another mile, Princess," Iroh answered evenly. Despite Azula's remarks about his having gone to seed, Iroh steadily and powerfully navigated over the jungle floor. Ferns and vines seemed to lay aside for him. "And we'll only be fighting beasts, as you call them, if we can't help it. My hope is that we will reach the ruins by nightfall, make camp, and then tomorrow complete our task and return to the palace with the dusk."

Zuko glanced upward. The thick knit of the canopy ensured that most light would not reach the forest floor, but some still managed to trickle through. It was waning, however, as the day drew to a close. He followed his uncle more closely, resting a hand on the hilt of one sword to make sure it was ready to draw, just in case.

He heard Azula sigh impatiently and abruptly there was a blaze of light behind him. Iroh stopped in his tracks and whirled around. "What are you doing?"

Azula pointed to a large bird-beetle that was writhing in pain on the forest floor. "It was going for my foot."

Iroh scowled as he lunged on top of the creature and put the fire out. It weakly snapped its jaws at him and then died while Azula stood by, arms folded obstinately. "It's dead," she announced. "Who cares?"

"You'll care in a minute if we don't get out of here," Iroh retorted. "Never firebend inside the jungle unless it's absolutely necessary; it attracts all kinds of unwanted attention. Now let's move; we've got to get out of here before Agni-knows-what-else in the area that noticed comes hunting after us."

"Like what, another bug?" To her surprise, Iroh seized Azula around the waist, lifted her over his shoulder, and began to run. "Hey! Put me down!"

"Zuko, follow me closely," Iroh called over his shoulder as they ran. "Let me know if you hear anything."

"As a matter of fact, Uncle…" The loud chattering of tounkeys, mixed with the shrieks of margay-chameleons, rose up from behind them.

Iroh paused to listen, his expression so stern (or perhaps it was the screaming of the fauna) that Azula stopping raining childish blows upon his back. "It's the jarguoa," he said softly. "We don't have a choice. It can climb better and move along the floor faster. Our only hope is reaching the ruins before it reaches us."

"We're not going to make it," Azula said. "We might as well just stay and fight."

"If you think that you have a fighting chance against a jarguoa, you're insane," her uncle replied. "We can make it. Zuko, get on my back. Azula, put your arms around my neck. Both of you grip each other's arms. I need my hands free for this."

Behind them, there was an ominous, steady crackling of branches and vines as the jarguoa moved over the forest floor. The cries of the tounkeys intensified, and other small creatures took flight over their heads. The siblings did as they were told, and Iroh angled his hands down and behind him, growling with concentration. Zuko's glance met Azula's, and for the first time that he could remember, he saw pure fear in his sister's eyes. He tightened his grip on his sister's forearms and tried to look confident. At his gesture of empathy, she scowled and buried her face in her uncle's chest.

Zuko could have sworn that the jarguoa was upon them when suddenly a great flame erupted from Iroh's hands and feet, lifting them a few inches off of the ground and propelling them along the forest floor at a high speed. He made the mistake of glancing backward and saw the yellow eyes of the jarguoa above a gaping, pink mouth full of fangs. The fire reached it and it lurched backward as its snout was burned, then quickly moved aside and began to race with Iroh, determined to have its meal nonetheless.

They moved like that for a full five minutes. Zuko was sure that his arms were about to fall off when he spotted the ruins in the distance. "Look!" he yelled over the crackle and hissing of the fire. Iroh nodded and increased his speed.

They collapsed on the steep steps of the old ruins, Zuko recovering with a handspring and Azula clinging to Iroh for a split second before shoving him away and getting to her feet unsteadily.

"Keep moving," Iroh instructed. "It will not dare to come into the ruins, but it may try to snatch one of us off our feet. The safest place is in one of the courtyards."

They obeyed him in silence. Zuko's arms were bruised where Azula had been clinging to him. The ruins themselves were a grey marble, overgrown with vines and weeds. In places, the roots of growing trees had upset the foundation and rose like powerfully curved snakes out of the stone. Ornate carvings had been mostly worn away by the rain and heat. Iroh stopped them once they reached a small courtyard covered in moss. There was a well that looked intact in the centre of the courtyard.

"We'll spend the night here," Iroh said. Though he was sweating, he did not sound out of breath. Instead, he bent to stretch his back, stood back up, and placed his hands on his hips. "That was an adventure, no?" He laughed, but neither Zuko or Azula joined him. "I'm going to find something we can burn for a fire. Don't wander off."

As soon as Iroh was out of sight Azula went to the well and drew a bucket of water to wash her face. The rope was rotted, but she had a length of cable in her backpack and used it and a hook to deftly capture the stone bucket within the well and feed it up to her. She said nothing to Zuko, but in his mind, she still looked startled. He watched her for a few minutes and then said, unable to bear her presence a moment longer,

"I'm going to take a look around."

She did not allow her concentration on her work to be broken. "Whatever, Zuzu." The words were familiar, but her voice shook slightly.

He headed off toward a pavilion in the distance. It was half-crumbled and covered over with a strange vine that had purple flowers that whistled when they trembled in the slight breeze. To the side, leading underneath the crumbled part, he could see a half-ruined staircase. He climbed over the rubble and followed the stair to passageway which over many twists and turns led him back, he judged, to very close by where Iroh had declared camp. The roots of a great tree had dislodged some of the bigger slabs of marble, and as Zuko brought a flame to bear in his hand he saw a dim glow in the corridor beyond.

He approached the glow cautiously. He could not say what drew him to this place, but it drew him strongly nonetheless. The room at the end of the corridor was a vault, such as his father had in his palace – except this one was massive, many times the size of Ozai's. Zuko put a foot inside and literally struck gold, mounds of it. He intensified the flame in his hand and beheld a sea of silver and gold coins, interrupted in places by chests of every precious stone one could imagine. Here and there were thrones of solid gold and jewels, chariots made of diamond, armour encrusted with rubies and sapphires the size of Zuko's clenched fist. There was a thick mildew on the walls, and rust or mildew coated some of the treasures, but that did not prevent the prince from realising the vastness of the wealth buried there. It was thousands of years' conquest, spoils, and taxes. Zuko drew in his breath sharply.

He went over to a wall and wiped the mildew away. From the script and what he knew of the jungle, the last time a man had stood in this vault was at least five hundred years previous. At that time, there had been a civil war between those loyal to the king and those who wanted to abolish the monarchy. The latter eventually triumphed and a Fire Lord was appointed instead of a king, though presently, Zuko knew, the Fire Lord had taken on much of the ancient king's privileges and responsibilities. Zuko was unsure, however, exactly how the palace had come to ruin, and why such a great treasure should be left behind. He could make out only a bit of what the inscription said: something about the 'cursed war' and 'giving the palace to the jungle' instead of an 'enemy'. It would be entrusted to the care of a –

"Guardian," he heard the low hiss from behind him. Zuko froze and put his hand on his sword.

"I am the guardian of this place. No – stay, thief," the voice continued. "Your sword is no use against me. If firebender you are, your fire is no use either. It has been many years since a thief has dared to venture into the sacred vault of King Unghzar, and I would like to have a little bit of play before the guards come to take you. Perhaps they will even let me kill you."

"I mean you no harm, guardian of the vault," Zuko said slowly. "I happened upon these ruins by accident. A jarguoa chased me here."

"Ruins?" The voice rasped hollowly, which Zuko took for a laugh. "There are no ruins here. It is the great palace of Unghzar, son of Onghzar, son of Yarz-oul in the line of Zukai since the beginning of the world. Are you blind or an idiot, o thief?"

"May I turn around, guardian?"

A snort. "If you wish. Try not to faint with fear, or I will have no sport in chasing you around."

Zuko turned slowly, sure to keep his hands away from his swords. If the voice belonged to someone, or something, that had dwelt in the ruins of the palace for five hundred years, he trusted its appraisal that his weapons would be of no use.

He tried not to gasp when he beheld the dragon.

It was not very large – perhaps a full twenty feet long – but it was pure white, bleached by the years underground. The body was smooth and scaled, with no wings. The head was huge and feathered, and though no teeth gleamed in the mouth, it was still a regal figure. It regarded Zuko quizzically with rheumy eyes.

"You do not wear the clothes of a peasant, and you do not act like one. Why do you try to steal the king's treasure? It is not a noble act."

"I'm not here to steal anything," Zuko protested calmly.

Ignoring his statement, the dragon put its head to the side and licked the edge of one ear with its long tongue. "There is no sport if you do not quiver, if you do not beg," it said, sounding vaguely sad. "Will you not give me sport?"

"I am telling you, guardian, that I came to the ruins only – "

The dragon huffed. "Ah, I see. He is mad," it said thoughtfully, as if talking to itself. "My sport is diminished, but they will be very pleased when they come down to feed me. They will see that I have been diligent in my work." It rose to tower over Zuko, looking down sternly. "If you are not going to give me sport, have the decency to die quickly."

With immense effort, Zuko stood his ground. "I will leave this place, and not take anything," he pleaded. "Spare me my life."

"I have spared no life since I was brought down to the darkness, as a hatchling," the dragon roared. "None except those who evaded me, but they took nothing. How was I to fight those who can fly – when I cannot?" It cast a mournful look over its back. "My masters have not found out yet, but I will bear my punishment with tolerance when they do."

"Those who fly…" Zuko attempted to get the dragon's attention. "Airbenders? You have seen airbenders here?"

"Years ago," the dragon said sadly. "They too said they happened upon this place by accident, and I would have roasted them had they not flown all about my head, and confused and sickened me. But they took nothing."

"How many years, guardian? A hundred? More or less?" The Avatar, Zuko thought briefly – but the Avatar was dead. No one had questioned that openly since Zuko was born. But air nomads, in any case. It was information of value, in any case.

The dragon shook its head. "I know not. Now, no more talking, not-peasant. Shall we have sport, or shall I kill you quickly?"

"I am telling you, guardian, I'm not – " Zuko dodged out of the way as the dragon lunged for him, mouth open wide. He evaded another lunge and, slipping on the coins, headed for the roots of the tree, where he could see openings in the ceiling of the vault big enough to squeeze himself through. Once he reached the tree, though, he paused, regarding the dragon thoughtfully. When it came again, he did not attempt to evade.

The great head halted within a foot of his face, the jaws gaping open, and Zuko drew one sword and languidly pricked the inside of the dripping mouth. "You've outlived your fire, Grandfather."

The dragon snapped its jaws shut and brought a paw to its mouth, dropping its head in an almost sullen manner. "You did not have to wound me, thief."

"I'm sorry," Zuko said, sincerely. "I will tell no one of this place and take nothing, for I admire your honour. But tell me, the airbenders…when?"

"Not twenty years ago," the dragon answered. "Now leave me with my shame."

Zuko bowed his head in thanks and scrambled up the tree and out into the humid night. The sky was starless, thanks to the thick trees, and he could smell his uncle cooking in the thick air.

_There is a chance that the Avatar survived,_ he thought. He did not think this to be very important. If the Avatar was still alive, then he certainly had not been active in the last hundred years – running about in the deep jungle and managing to evade an old dried-up dragon were not exactly heroic actions, nor ones detrimental to the Fire Nation's war. It was valuable information, Zuko supposed, for someone who was actively looking for the Avatar, and he did not know nor could ever imagine knowing anyone like that. Settling himself down in the moss at the base of the tree, he listened to the whirring of the cicadabees within the jungle. Zuko felt a new worth within him, remembering the dragon's proud words of the Fire Nation's glory days. He knew, too, that this long war would be set down in the history books as the prelude to an even greater age of glory for his nation and his people. He would prove himself to his father and draw that glory again into a reality – for the both of them.

Zuko laughed. He felt the primordial fire of the cosmos pour down inside him and he clenched his fists, ready to immolate the new day.


End file.
